


Darling, it’s hard to leave when you look like a dream

by kiyo_k



Series: Crazily Dreaming [2]
Category: Inception (2010), PsyCop Series - Jordan Castillo Price
Genre: Arthur has no chill, Eames has game, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyo_k/pseuds/kiyo_k
Summary: Dating doesn’t have to be this needlessly complicated.





	Darling, it’s hard to leave when you look like a dream

 

“Utterly useless, the both of you,” Eames observes drily, sipping on his chai irritably, as he falls back on his chair and stares at the complicated flow chart scribbled across the whiteboard.  

“Oh yeah?” Ariadne snorts into her Frappe. “And how’s your ‘hunches’ working out for you? At least I -” she gestures to herself and then waves her hand around the right corner of the board, “- got you the types of cuisine he likes.”

That’s rich, Eames thinks. French, Chinese, Indian, Thai … The list goes on and on. The only thing he could have discerned from Ariadne’s input is that Arthur is the least picky eater he has ever come across, and that realization is not helping his cause.

“What about you, Mal?” he tries again out of desperation. “There must have been something telling in your dreams. Anything?”

Mal only sighs and repeat her now all too familiar response. “I don’t dream of events which doesn’t involve my direct participation.”

“Maybe we could arrange a double date with you and the detective?”

She rolls her eyes at his suggestion. “With all due respect, I don’t think double first dates will end with anyone of us getting laid by the end of that night,” she deadpans, and Ariadne chokes laughingly on her drink, wiping away uncontrollable tears off the corner of her eyes.

Eames turns his attention back to the whiteboard with a frown, wondering not for the first time since they started this meeting, how between the three of them, high level Psychs in their own rights, still can’t figure out a simple dinner date venue for him and Arthur.

“Look,” Mal says as she reaches for another one of those macaroons which Eames had bought for the ladies as bribes. “I don’t see why this has to be so needlessly complex, when at the heart of it, that boy’s really not that complicated at all.” She munches into the dainty snack, grabs the marker off the desk and saunters up to the whiteboard. 

“So here’s what we know about his likes,” she taps the marker on a corner of the board. “And here are his dislikes.” Both lists, Eames observes, are depressingly short. Reason for his current predicament. But then Mal snaps open the cap, and draws a circle around one prominent item - bespoke suits. That’s not where she stops though, for immediately after, the next circle was drawn - Eames’ horrible paisley shirt. It’s of course, under a different heading from the former. 

“I would say it’s simple,” she tosses the marker back at Eames who fumbles to catch it. “Show up in one of those nice suits which I know you have been hiding from us…” She turns to Ariadne who turns pensive and then nods like it’s an afterthought.  _ Traitor _ . “And if you are indeed all that good, under all those scruffs and ratty coats...” Out from the corner of his eye he could see Ariadne nodding absently again. _ What question is that girl even asking in her mind?  _ But Mal’s still speaking. “Then the only question Arthur should have for that evening, would be how to ravish you. Not what to eat.”

That, Eames thinks as he muses over her words, may be precisely why Mal’s the precog among them. And French.

 

* * *

 

When the bell rings at eight, Arthur opens the door of his apartment and almost had a heart attack. 

There’s a stunning looking man standing right outside. Sensible, pinstriped shirt, tailored pants that hug flattering hips and a well-cut jacket that tapers near the waist and highlights broad shoulders, the scraggy beard he sometime keeps, trimmed down to a light dusting of stubble that complements the plush lips of his. No wonder Eames always dresses sloppily. Him, dressed in a good shirt, would have been a menace to old ladies walking on the sidewalks. 

“Hi darling,” The man says handing him a bouquet with a light peck to his cheek. “It’s rare to see you in casual.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Arthur looks down and takes in his own navy striped shirt opened at the collar, with sleeves rolled up to his forearm. He’s in jeans for goodness sake. “I wasn’t sure where we are heading. Should I change?” 

“And deny me the chance to enjoy the view? I don’t think so. And besides - ” he pulls out a bag of white containers from the blindspot beside the hinges. “I brought us Chinese.” 

_ If we are only having takeouts, why are you dressed to the nines?  _ Arthur wants to ask, but then a second realization hijacks his mind.  _ Eames will be staying in Arthur’s apartment. This evening. Having takeouts. _ And the important question comes then - will he be staying the night? 

“You know I used to get insecure when you go all silent on me,” Eames interrupts Arthurs’ thoughts and tucks a stray lock of hair out of Arthur’s eyes, gently back behind his ears. “So help me darling, tell me what you are thinking right now.” 

Eames’ admission of his own insecurity is a surprise, and it must have dislodged some form of filter barrier in Arthur for he says, “I am just glad I have cleaned my apartment.” Then immediately had to resist the urge to bang his head against the wall. That, his traitoring mind adds, is the reason why Arthur shouldn’t do dates, period. 

But the smile that graces Eames’ face is a slow capture of perfection which almost blew Arthur’s anxiety away. “I hope this means I will get to see the inside of it?”

“Well,” Arthur says with a sudden spark of renewing confidence as he turns and beckons Eames in. “You do deserve a reward for finally dressing like an adult.”

As they lay the box cartons out on the table, Arthur notices it almost instantaneously. “This is my favorite restaurant,” he points at the red logo imprint. 

“Mmh. Is that it? Lucky me then.” 

Eames’ face is a sneaky con of nonchalance, but Arthur’s already onto him. He circles his hand over the dishes, Kung Pow Chicken, Egg Fried Rice, Hotplate Tofu and the chef-recommended Spicy Dumplings. “These are my favorite dishes,” he deadpans. “From that restaurant.”

“Are they? I have absolutely no idea. My hunches are on a roll.”

“Your hunches...” Arthur’s outright smiling now as he looks back at the food. “So you’re telling me this has absolutely nothing to do with that two hour meeting yesterday you had with - of all people - Mal and Ariadne?” 

“Jesus, Arthur.” Eames leans close suddenly, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You should start changing interrogation tactics. Go smile at the perps. Your dimples are making me weak.” 

“This means up till now, all that stern expression of disapproval haven’t been working on you?”

“Nah,” Eames smiles cheekily. “Just made me go all hot under the collar.”

_ And damned.  _ Just when he thinks he’s getting the hang of it, Eames throws him right off the edge again. The tips of his ears are burning and he knows he’s blushing. Furiously. Which is when a pair of chopstick is shoved into his hand, like a buoy to a drowning man. 

“Eat,” Eames says. “Before the food gets cold.”

Food is a convenient distraction from the lack of conversation Arthur can offer. There’s the random pleasant snippets in between bites of gossips, work and some hilarious tales from back when he had to change his sister’s diapers. But as they clear up the boxes, the unpleasant apprehension roiling in his guts charges back in full force again. 

“It’s still early,” Eames says taking the beer out of Arthur’s offering hand. At once, Arthur could feel the tension between his own shoulders, as his eyes flicker between bottle and bottle opener and wondering for a full second how to fit them together. “Maybe put on a movie,” Eames continues.  _ Oh right, _ the mechanism comes rushing back to him and the cap pops open. “Maybe something like Batman,” the psych suggests into his beer and Arthur’s head jerks up eyes narrowing, wheels spinning quickly in his head.

“I’m going to kill Ariadne,” he finally grounds out between clenched teeth and Eames smirks. “It’s not always her you know. Give a guy some credit. You have a mug with a bat signal on the drying rack.”

_ Shit _ he had forgotten to keep that and Arthur facepalms in embarrassment as Eames chuckles. “Don’t think too much of it. There’s nothing wrong with being a fanboy. I for one, have always wanted to be Batman.” The psych takes a swig of his beer. “Fighting crimes. Taking care of the little people. And being rich to boot. ”

“All that the money didn’t make him happy though.”

“Believe me, I’ve realized that along the way. But it sure wouldn’t hurt when you’re broke,” Eames reflects ruefully before turning to Arthur who has come to perch on the kitchen counter right next to him. “What about you? Any favorite characters?” 

Arthur pauses then slowly confesses, “There was a time when I wanted to be the Joker.” 

“All chaos and hell run loose?” Eames quirks an inquiring eyebrow, then with a pointed look directed at the neatness of his kitchen. “Pardon me, but that doesn’t sound very much like you.” 

“You didn’t see me back then,” Arthur laughs weakly. “I was angry all the time. Caring for my sister helps a little. But sometimes -” He looks down at his hand, curved around the bottle, fingers clenching and un-clenching restlessly. “- sometimes I get so angry that I just want to see the world burns.” 

The ensuing silence makes Arthur thinks that he has finally go and done it. Said something stupid to ruin the night. But then Eames wrap his hand around Arthur’s shoulder, near the base of his neck, thumb rubbing absently to the tune of his pulse and suddenly it feels just right to lean into the touch. “Is that’s why you enlisted? To be rid of the anger?"

“I don’t know,” Arthur  admits. “I don’t think I could ever lose it. But I thought maybe I could learn to control it." 

“Well, seeing you now, looks like the plan worked.”

The harsh bark of laughter catches even Arthur himself by surprise. “Oh they did,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “Seems like all it ever took to straighten me out, was to really see it for myself - ” he takes a drink from his bottle grimacing at the fleeting hit of its bitter tang. “ - how the world looks like when it’s truly in flames.”

The thumb on his neck stilled as a second hand comes to rest on his face, fingers tracing down to his chin and leaving a comforting trail of warmth. Eames’ expression is a mix of affectionate concern, soft and gentle as he draws Arthur in slowly, the air between them thickening with anticipation. When he leans in, Arthur’s eyes flutter close, all doubts and worries disappearing as if they’d never existed. 

The taste of mint is distinctively absent, but the kiss still tastes as sweet as he’d remember, though it escalated quickly to something akin to desperation. Intoxicated, he runs roving hands on the man, his bottle long misplaced somewhere as far away from the ledge as possible. Who needs liquor when there’s a much better alternative to get drunk on. 

Now that he’s aware of the permission he had been handed, Arthur didn’t waste time straddling Eames up against the counter, plastering his body up into the man’s heat as he circles his arms around solid shoulders and pulls Eames down back close, drawing themselves further into each other’s mouth. 

He could feel himself hardening, as he ruts shamelessly on strong thighs, all propriety gone with each heady rush of lust. When fingers dig deep into Arthur’s hips and stilled his movement, he pulls back with a confused frown, heaving in chestful of air. “Jesus, darling,” Eames says, flushed and panting, mouth swollen and slick. “Keep at it, and it will be hard for me to leave you alone tonight.”

“You’re leaving?” Arthur asks, suddenly feeling weak. And Eames groans, expression unreadable. “God no,” he says with a helplessly broken voice as if to catch his breath. “Not when you’re looking at me like that.” And when Eames dives back into their kiss, this time, there’s no hesitation. His hands burn with fervour as they pull out the hem of Arthur’s shirt and dip beneath, groping possessively along the skin on his back then reaching down to trace the waistline of his pants, before dipping lower and into the back of his jeans. When they splay across his ass, Arthur’s hip jerks forward with a shiver. He could feel clearly, Eames’ hardness, rubbing hotly through the fabric, and now that he’d feel it, he can’t wait to have it in him.

“I want to suck you off,” he whispers, brushing his mouth on the curve of Eames’ ear and feeling immensely smug when Eames sucks in a deep breath and outright shudders beneath him. He makes quick work on Eames’ fly, bringing it open, but right before he slides down to his knees, gentle fingers stops him. “Darling, no, let’s take a rain check on that.” 

“You don’t want my mouth?” He asks, voice small with growing uncertainty.

“Of course I want your mouth.” Eames throws his head back and groans. “I will always want your mouth. Everywhere in fact,” and as if to emphasize his point, pulls Arthur back up into a searing kiss. “But not tonight. Not with you on the floor. You’re still injured for fuck sake,” he mouths, nibbling on Arthur’s lips like he can’t get enough of it. “So please darling, let me be gentle with you tonight.” Eames says with such sincerity that his words simply draws Arthur’s breath away and all he could do, is to stare disbelieving at the man before him. No one has ever asked that of him before. 

“Take me to your bed,” Eames continue as he fumbles with Arthur’s shirt button, sucking soft kisses into every piece of uncovered skin, his words, a plethora of half-pleas and filthy promises. “Let me treat you right. I’ll fill you up. Fuck into you all night. Have you screaming my name...”

“You just said you’ll be gentle,” Arthur says, the accusation falling flat with how simply wrecked he sounds as arousal takes over. And Eames knows. Just smile a predatory smirk, and slips the unbuttoned shirt right off Arthur’s shoulder. “That I did,” the man says pulling Arthur back close and wrapping his arms around Arthur’s shivering back, whispering, “I will just have to take you apart gently.” 

“Oh God, yes, yes,” Arthur’s aware he’s begging then. Pawing at the ridiculously well cut shirt, and finally getting it off the man. The trip to the bedroom is sort of two steps forward, one step back, with one lengthy detour of him finally giving into his desire and pushing Eames against the wall, helplessly tonguing the tattoos on his pecs while the other man productively works on getting both of their remaining kits off. 

By the time they fall on the bed, Arthur’s already feeling impossibly hard and empty, badly needing to just have  _ something _ . And he says so as much through sobs and pleas. But Eames keeps true to his words. Just lets his weight settles briefly over Arthur, holding him still, mouth mapping slowly down his body, each bruising bite, soothed with a tender kiss. Taking obvious care when he reaches the clear gauze still plastered across his skin, cheek caressing softly over the wound as he rubs slow circles into the scar on Arthur’s thigh. 

When Eames finally takes pity on him and suck him down, mouth a warm, wet, heat, it’s embarrassing how quickly Arthur came, head arching back in a wordless scream, hands gripping tight at shorn hair in a way which must have hurt. But Eames barely winces, just milk him dry through his orgasm, before pulling off with a pop, licking at his lips when he looks back down with a hooded gaze at Arthur, now all pliant and stretched out beneath, “Sweet Jesus darling, I barely had my mouth on you.”

It takes quite an effort for Arthur to admit with a hoarse whisper, “It’s been a while.” 

“Been holding out for me?” 

There’s no way Arthur would have answered to that. But the tremors that wrecked through his body and the involuntary whimper that escapes his throat were dead giveaways. The body above him freezes, and the bruising bite on his shoulder that follows swiftly is the one furthest thing away from gentleness, hurting in all the good ways even through his recent orgasm haze. 

That, and the very notion of Eames’ slipping control over his desire of him, had Arthur gasping and hard almost again. Just like that.

The warmth fleets, but only for a moment, replaced by the sound of rushed fumbling through the drawers by his bed. When finally the bottle of lube bounces down beside Arthur, half empty, as he recalls with a startling blush of how much of it was spent over the course of the past two weeks. 

“So easy for me,” Eames’ voice has gone guttural, as he reaches what must have been the same conclusion. And now that everything’s been thrown out into the open, there no longer seems any reason for Arthur to hide.  “You, only you,” he moans, hooking his calves over Eames’ thigh, drawing him in. 

It’s emancipating to finally let those control slip.

There’s a growl as a pillow is slipped under his waist and his leg’s thrown open. The sound of a cap flipping open, and then a teasing touch rubbing gentle circles, before breaching slowly into him. “So tight,” Eames hums appreciatively as he adds another slicked finger, nosing Arthur’s neck and mumbling small praises every time Arthur moans and relaxes. By the third finger, Arthur is all the way hard again, squirming and writhing as Eames stretches him apart. 

When Eames pauses to reach for the box of condoms though, there’s a loud groan. “It’s empty,” he says and Arthur stills, only remembering now just how long it had been. “One moment, I have something with me... ” Eames says then curses again, as he realizes how he’d have shed their trousers on their way to the room. Outside. 

Even a moment then seems too long a torture for Arthur to wait. 

“Don’t go,” he begs. Clawing at Eames’ shoulders and pulling him down over him. Eames’ forearms falling and bracketing beside Arthur’s head, seemingly mindful of his injury, although Arthur’s already long past the hurt, aching now in another place. “Like this. Just like this,” he says, one hand guiding Eames into him, his intention unmistakable. 

“Arthur,” Eames says, now sounding fully wrecked as he asks, “You sure?”

“Know you’re clean,” Arthur answers with a bite to his lips. “Just fucking do it.” 

And Eames finally, finally, lines himself up, and sinks into Arthur with one slow slide. “Jesus,” the man says, his voice reverberating through Arthur, all the way down to his toes. Eames holds still then, face drawn tight in fierce concentration, as if the effort of holding himself back is too much to bear. The respite is brief, lasting only till the moment when Arthur, too wound up to wait any longer, rocks up with a stutter to his hips. The effect is stupefying, the angle just right, drawing out sharp gasps from the both of them. 

“Jesus, darling, you’re killing me here,” Eames says, Arthur’s only warning, before the man cut loose, hands gripping onto his thighs, fucking into him earnestly, each stroke sinking deeper and bringing them both nearer to the ledge. Reduced into a babbling mess of sobs and _please_ _Eames,_ Arthur could only held on tight as Eames rides into him. 

It doesn’t take much more than that before Arthur’s falling apart, eyes squeezing shut as he comes and clenches down hard. Eames’ pace breaks then, his hip stuttering against Arthur’s ass in short erratic thrusts as he fucks Arthur through his orgasm while chasing his own, finally coming with a groan as he claims Arthur’s mouth in a ravening kiss. Right before falling on him, Eames rolls them both over with him on his back and Arthur’s body covering his own, and they stay like that for a moment, catching their breath. Arthur fucked out and reveling in the afterglow, curled up like a kitten and oblivious to the delayed realization Eames is having until the man says, “This is impossible.” 

Arthur can feel his body holding still, the sweat pooling at his back running cold now that the passion recedes. But Eames only presses soft kisses to his forehead, “You’re impossible. What am I gonna do if you ever quit me?”

“Quit you?”

“Well it’s not gonna happen the other way innit,” Eames says, letting his fingers trail down Arthur’s spine, helping himself to several good gropes when he reaches Arthur’s ass. “I mean the vests and suits, the dimples, the snark and those James Bond moves. Bloody hell. I’m already all crazy for you. And now this - ” Eames dips his fingers lower between Arthur’s thighs, tracing the pads over Arthur’s dripping entrance, relishing how wet and soft he’d made him. “What are you gonna do if I fall even deeper in love with you?”

“You’re in love with me?”

“Fuck your brains all out now did I,” Eames smiles, sounding extremely smug, before the question really hits him and his hands still. “Wait, you didn’t know?” He frowns, tilting Arthur’s chin up for a closer look. “You really… Oh Arthur, how could you not have known? Even Bayne noticed. I’ve been making moon eyes all over you. I call you darling, and love and - ” 

“I’m in love with you too,” Arthur blurts out, feeling suddenly stupid on how he could have possibly missed those signs. The coffee breaks Eames insists they have alone together, those little smiles and lingering touches, and the endearments that seems only to be reserved for him. 

The confession, however, seems to break Eames briefly. “Right... ” he says slowly, and Arthur had to repress a shiver as Eames slides two fingers back within him, voice dropping a notch lower, “Since when?”  

“I don’t know,” Arthur pants, brain scrambling, as the fingers presses into his sweet spot. “I have been wanting to tear those stupid shirts off you forever. And then you start bringing in all those leads, and… ” He bites down on Eames’ shoulder hard and not without a bit of grudge. “But you never fucking notice. Just keeps flirting with all those secretaries. And being as sarcastic as shit.

“I…” Eames halts, stricken, as the revelation sinks in. “You mean we could have been doing this for much longer?” His head fall back with a sharp groan. “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m the one who’s been cockblocking us.”

He pulls Arthur in for a deep filthy kiss which had Arthur reeling. “Darling, I guess you just have to let me make it up to you…”  

 

* * *

 

 

When Eames finally got to check his phone on Monday morning, there’s a message from Ariadne waiting for him:

_ Congrats on finally getting laid.  _

_ P.s, I was the one who told Arthur you’re clean. You’re welcome.  _

_ And you so owe me a month of lunch.  _  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tada!! It's finally completed - The side story on their date.  
> was thinking of a prequel, abt the first case they worked on. 
> 
> But then some other project pop up and I really wanted to get started on that first.  
> So seems like any other additions to the Psycop crossover will have to be on hold for now.
> 
> btw this is the first time i wrote smut. And boy, do i have to read through a bunch of really good smut to figure something to write. it was fun though.


End file.
